Imagine columns of aqua blue starfish, seashells, and kelp bulbs. Visualize ceilings of tire-sized flowers of every color hovering above you and radiating a rainbow of sunlight with your body as the canvas. Picture rowboats piled with Technicolor orbs, wispy rods and belled vessels, floating atop a sea of black glass, reflecting the surreal masterpieces above.
Whatever you’ve just imagined is nothing compared to the reality that Dale Chihuly crafts and displays at his newest creation–his eponymous Garden and Glass Museum. Since 1965, Chihuly has been creating works of art though the medium of colored blown glass. His imaginative installations have been displayed all over the world, and now many of his works have a permanent home in Seattle. As one of the newest additions to Seattle culture, it’s now my favorite place to visit. Each time I go there, I leave wishing for more time to lose myself in the mesmerizing beauty he’s made. He approximates nature yet somehow surpasses it.
Since words could never do his work justice, I’ll leave you with a collage of images that give you a simple taste of the visual wonders Chihuly has created (click on the images to enlarge).
I love Seattle, and after nearly four years of living here, it finally feels like home. It’s a dynamite town. It’s small yet metropolitan. Neighborhoods like Ballard, Capitol Hill, Freemont, and Magnolia boast distinct personalities yet feel cohesively Seattle. We have a good baseball team, a stellar soccer team, and a phenomenal football team (Go Seahawks!) with stadiums and fans that rival the greats around the country. Food options are diverse and ever improving to suit and challenge foodie taste buds (except for good Mexican food–we need to work on that please).
You may not like Starbucks, but these tourist think it’s #1.
It’s rich with Native American, logger, Prohibition, and civic history, and its music and art culture have influenced styles and individuals all over the world. Progressive attitudes about gay rights, the legalization of marijuana and decent living wages fit right in with an intellectual community that fosters the technology and aerospace industries mixed with an outdoorsy population that has easy access to rugged hiking trails, wicked ski runs, ubiquitous bike paths, and aquatic recreation. You may be hard-pressed to find sunshine and vitamin D around these parts, but if ever you’re itching to play a round of “Find the Hipster”, you’re sure to win handily in Seattle. And let’s not forget the coffee culture–Starbucks lovers and haters all find a happy home here in Latte-land.
The sad thing is, I don’t get to enjoy the city all that much. I live in a suburb about 20 minutes north of downtown, I travel pretty frequently, and when we’re home, my partner Rick Steves and I like to settle in and just be…at home. And I’d argue that many people are in a similar rut–they don’t take advantage of their hometowns as much as they ‘d like. Life just gets in the way sometimes. The grass is always greener in some other city or some other country. And sometimes we forget just how good we have it in our own backyards.
So when family or friends come to town for a visit, I relish the opportunity of showing them around. As much as they want to see the popular sites and enjoy their vacation, I, too, want to be a tourist and see my city with wide-eyed wonder and embrace all that it has to offer.
Autumnal colors that decorate the Washington Park Arboretum are a welcome any local or visitor to become a nature tourist.
In autumn, the Washington Park Arboretum is a must see and is mere minutes from downtown. Moving from San Diego to Seattle, I had never lived through seasons–there we just have sunny, mostly sunning, and a rare and strange phenomenon call rain. Seeing nature’s palette morph from emerald, parsley, jade, and forest green to ruby, merlot and cinnamon red, pumpkin and sunset orange, and golden squash yellow is a marvel to me. Exploring even just a fraction of the arboretum’s 400 acres with Rick and my parents was a reminder that God is the greatest artist, and all His creations are masterpieces.
My niece Dylan jumps for joy at the Space Needle.
Typical tourist sites are great anytime of the year and are the perfect spots for your obligatory vay-cay selfies. Catch a fish that flies in the flower-scented halls of Pike Place Public Market. Go round and round on the waterfront Seattle Wheel and pretend that you’re on the London Eye. Have a fancy dinner on the top of the Space Needle and ruminate on the thought that 50 years ago, this icon was the veritable homing beacon for the Seattle World’s Fair. Walk through Capitol Hill and visit the bar where Nirvana had their first concert and Grunge ripped its plaid-shirted, stringy-haired way through the fabric of the American music scene.
Try your fish-catching skills at Pike Place Market.The Smith Tower (right)–once the tallest building west of the Missisippi–still has fantastic views and historic features that c its newer neighboring structures can’t beat.
But when everyone who visits you wants to go those places, it can sometimes get old. Instead, my visitors get a look at the underbelly of Seattle with the Seattle Underground tour. The cityscape we know nowadays sits atop remnants of a then-burgeoning pioneer and lumber town with wooden buildings that escaped the fire of 1889. When it came time to rebuild the city, the urban planners added land to the coastline to expand the city’s footprint further into Puget Sound and used the timber-house skeletons to serve as a physical foundation for the re-envisioned 20th-century city. That era ushered in the monumental buildings made of steel and concrete. The 38-storey, 489-foot tall Smith Tower, built in 1914, was the tallest building west of the Mississippi for 17 years and the tallest on the west coast until 1962 when the Space Needle was built. Today it houses one of the oldest, functioning cage elevators (with live elevator operator) in Seattle and still has some of the best views of the city.
This amphibious vehicle from the 1940s is now an icon of Seattle tourism.
With all the rain we get in the Pacific Northwest, it’s no wonder people say that Seattleites have webbed feet, and it’s no wonder we’re home to the world famous Duck Tours of Seattle–a novel and surprisingly educational way to get an entertaining overview of the city. On a recent visit, Rick and I hopped on a Duck (an amphibious vehicle from the World War II era turned tourist transport) on a whim with my parents. Our zany driver/guide drove us all around Seattle and into the waters of Lake Union, all the while sharing fun facts and tidbits about the history, architecture, and culture of Washington’s great second-city. If you like corny jokes, whacky music, trucks that become boats, efficient use of time, and learning from a guide who’s passionate about what he does, this tour will quack you up.
Situated on the Seattle Center campus, the Frank Gehry-designed Experience Music Project is a must-see for music lovers.
Culture vulture friends of mine love wandering through SAM (the Seattle Art Museum), the newly opened MOHAI (Museum of History and Industry) at its Lake Union waterfront venue, and the incomparable Dale Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum (stayed tuned for un upcoming post on this jaw-dropping site). Ogle the Frank Ghery-designed exterior of Paul Allen’s (of Microsoft fame) EMP–Experience Music Project. Inside you can experience the sonic works of Seattle’s most famous music artists like Jimmy Hendrix and Nirvana, and you can even create your own music video.
Tom Douglas and his talented crew at Dahlia Lounge craft tasty morsels with Seattleite flair.
For the foodies, Tom Douglas is a name to remember, even if you can’t remember the 14 restaurants he owns in the Seattle area. As the preeminent chef of the Emerald City, he conjures distinctive tastes for each of his culinary venues that reflect not only a Pacific Northwest seafood and earthy palette but also Italian, Middle Eastern, Asian, and comfort food cuisines. And if that doesn’t suit you, try a food tour through Capitol Hill to find something that’ll tickle your taste buds.
I’m thankful for dear friends like these who come to visit me in Seattle and get me to be a tourist in my own town.
Residing in a place and really living in it are two very different things. We often choose to live where we do because of what that place has to offer, but if we don’t take advantage of its assets, it defeats the purpose being there. There’s so much to do in my newly adopted hometown, and I know I’ve only scratched the surface. The more I explore Seattle with visiting friends and family, the more I appreciate its history, understand its present, and am committed to its hopeful future. My challenge to you: Come up with ten things you would explore as a tourist in your own hometown. Where would you take your friends and family if you were the tour guide? Share your ideas with The Travelphile Community, and turn us on to the place you call home.
My list of places to explore in Seattle is still long, and it seems to keep growing all the time. So the next time you’re in Seattle, let me know. We can be tourists together.
With our moving experience at the USS Arizona Memorial completed, Odile and I have just enough time for a blitz visit to the USS Missouri before scooping up her little cherubs from preschool. As we drive onto Ford Island, the tranquil solemnity I felt on the Arizona quickly gives way to mild panic about having barely enough time to enjoy this next site. I can’t help but silently regret, “We should have gotten here sooner.”
Panic’s companion is eager anticipation. The battleship Missouri is the last of its kind built by the US Navy. While it saw a lot of action, it’s best known as the site of Japan’s unconditional surrender, bringing a welcomed end to World War II. The history contained in this vessel is as behemoth as the ship itself. And I want to learn as much as I can in the little time we’ve got.
American flags proudly funnel us towards the “Mighty Mo”.With the USS Arizona Memorial in the background, a high school band performs a medley of patriotic songs at their visit to the USS Missouri.
The car windows are rolled down to let in the warm, Hawaiian breeze, and with it come the sounds of a marching band. We can’t believe our luck! We park the car and race towards the ship (even with a strained ankle, Odile manages to pull off an Olympic speed-walk). Proud and patriotic flags line the pathway to the ship and funnel us towards a visiting high school band and tall flag team performing a medley of proud and patriotic tunes. Wool uniforms and sweat-drenched faces matter little to this lucky bunch. They’re elated to be here for the festivities of the 72nd anniversary weekend of the Pearl Harbor attack, and how fortunate we are to see them perform!
Marines visit the USS Missouri as tourists.Camping it up with combat helmets and a battleship.
Uniformed military personnel of every branch are milling all around us, too–not to patrol, not to protect, but to be tourists, just like us. The excitement in their eyes about being at such an historic site is contagious. The spirit of the moment carries us away and we ham it up by taking some cheesy photos. How often do you get to wear a combat helmet with a battleship at your back?
As we finally board the Missouri, a jovial woman greets us with a broad smile and says, “You look like you’re on a mission!” I glance at her nametag and unable to contain my enthusiasm, I quickly blurt out, “Linda, we’re just so happy to be here! We just visited the Arizona, we got to listen to a marching band, and we’re ready to take a guided tour!”
“Well, goooood! Y’all gonna to meet me right here in ten minutes. But I gotta tell you a secret: there’s gonna be a flyover in three minutes. So, you climb those steps right there and get on up to the Surrender Deck so you get a perfect view with the marines standing on the bow of the ship.”
What timing! This just keeps getting better and better! We scramble to the canopied Surrender Deck and decide we need to climb down one deck to get a less obstructed view. With a set of eight 16-inch guns to my back, marines to my left, the Surrender Deck on my right, and Pearl Harbor in front of me, I get shivers in the tropical midday heat as four helicopters parade before us against a backdrop of celestial blue.
Video: Helicopter Flyover at the USS Missouri
Linda expertly shares history and touching stories of the USS Missouri.
We meet up again with Linda–a self-proclaimed “suhthun gurl” who likes to talk and loves when people talk to her. If we have questions, we shouldn’t be shy. But for the next forty-five minutes, she leads us on such an animated and informative tour that most of our would-be questions are answered before we have time to raise our hands. We explore the impressive structure, machinery, and artillery of the ship. We listen attentively as she paints verbal pictures of valor, honor, and respect that exemplify the soldiers, leaders–and even the then-enemies who boarded this ship. Linda uses her artistry as a storyteller to take us back in time to tumultuous and sacred moments on the Missouri. Two stories stood out to me.
The Burial at Sea
Ten days into the battle of Okinawa, a Kamikaze fighter attacked the “The Mighty Mo”. Kamikaze (divine wind) pilots had the sole purpose of destroying warships by crashing their planes into the sea vessels, committing suicide in the process. Anti-aircraft fire took down the plane. It struck the side of the Missouri and landed of the deck, spewing fire and debris everywhere. The body of 19-year-old Setsuo Ishino was found amongst the rubble.
Rage, fear, and vengeance must have swelled in every crewmember. But the levelheaded Captain William M. Callaghan took leadership and asked his troops to embrace dignity rather than disgrace, respect rather than revenge, and compassion rather than cruelty. To him, this young Japanese pilot was doing exactly what he was supposed to do–just as his own men were each doing their duty–and died for his country because of it.
Left: military photo of XXX, right: family photo, XXX is the one holding the plane.
Sewing together scavenged fabric, the crew made a makeshift Japanese flag to drape the canvas shroud covering the body of the enemy pilot. A three-volley rifle salute was given, and all those present stood at attention as the melancholic brassy notes of “Taps” played for the fallen fighter.. And so even in the midst of brutal war, these men bound together to honor an enemy soldier, committed Ishino’s body to the sea, and in doing so celebrated their common humanity.
Unconditional Surrender
It must have been humiliating for the representatives of the Japanese Empire to be there, surrendering to the Allied Forces in the Bay of Tokyo with their backs to their countrymen. And it was designed to be. No one spoke a word to them. They were left to their own thoughts, their own fears, and their own imaginations about what would happen. They had braced themselves for the worst, and while they had their duties as officials of Japan to fulfill, in their minds, death would have been more honorable than surrender.
General MacArthur at the ceremony for the unconditional surrender of the Japanese Empire to the Allied Forces.
The timing and events of the ceremony had been practiced with military precision–crafted to last no more than thirty minutes. The enemy would not be granted any more time than that on this US battleship. When General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, addressed them, the Japanese were likely braced for his anger, his insults, his haughtiness, and his intimidation. He chose instead to speak of opportunities for freedom, growth, mutual respect, and peace.
We have known the bitterness of defeat and the exultation of triumph, and from both we have learned there can be no turning back. We must go forward to preserve in peace what we won in war…Let us pray that peace be now restored to the world and that God will preserve it always.
–General MacArthur; September 2, 1945; USS Missouri, Tokyo Bay
Listening to Linda weave tales of history, heroism, tragedy, triumph, and hope, I couldn’t help but cry. This may be a war from decades ago, and I may not have known anyone involved in battle, but I am human, I am an American, and I feel pain, pride, and joy as deeply as anyone. Our history, whether we know it intimately or not, shapes us. So it behooves us to understand our past so we can understand ourselves. And it takes a gifted tour guide like Linda to make the past feel present, to help us learn lessons from the mistakes and victories of our ancestors, and to move toward a hopeful future.
As a traveler, it’s important to embrace serendipitous moments when history, culture, learning, and understanding all converge at the same place and time. I’m so thankful to have been at the right place at the right time to have this amazing experience.
Thank you, Linda, for bring the past to the present and for teaching us about our shared history.
“Yesterday, December 7, 1941–a date which will live in infamy–the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
Seventy-two years ago, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, in response to the “dastardly” surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, and speaking on behalf of himself and the people of the United States, addressed the U.S. Congress and requested a declaration of war on Japan, propelling our country into the throes of the Second World War. Today, the memory of that infamous day lives on with tributes of solemn respect at Pearl Harbor–part of the collective World War II Valor in the Pacific Monument in Hawaii, California, and Alaska. The most visited site is the USS Arizona Memorial. I was one of 1 million visitors this year and was fortunate to experience it just two days before the 72nd anniversary of the attack.
Morning on the windward coast of Oahu.
The sun has only been up for half an hour, and it tints the tropical sky with oranges, pinks, and purples. My friend Odile and I want to arrive early enough to avoid the expected crowds. We receive our tickets for an 8:30 entrance and have plenty of time to wander the Visitors’ Center. Standing by the water’s edge, I gaze across the harbor to the USS Arizona Memorial– a symbol of the beginning of America’s involvement in WWII. To its left is the last US Navy-built battleship–the USS Missouri, where Japan’s unconditional surrender signaled the end of that devastating war. And across from that is the supercarrier–the USS Nimitz, temporarily docked in this harbor and a contemporary example of ever-present US military might.
L to R: USS Nimitz, USS Missouri, USS Arizona Memorial
Even though it’s still early in the morning, it seems unusually quiet for a touristic site. No one walks with impatience, faces look pleasant or seem lost in thought, and people are using their “inside voices” despite being outdoors. We go to the holding area to await the start of the half-hour documentary that depicts the attack on Pearl Harbor, and even there, with 150 of us gathered, a beautiful calm filters through all of us.
The USS Arizona burns after being hit by a torpedo. (AP photo, US Navy)
Nearly everyone in the room–save some little ones–remembers vividly the terrorist attacks on the US in 2001. But most of us here have no living memory, let alone a solid understanding, of what happened during WWII–it’s distant, long ago, not of our generation, and frankly, not a contemporary concern. But we’re all here because we want to learn, and the documentary helps us tremendously. Historical background about the US’s mutually beneficial relationship with China; Japan’s goals for imperial expansion into China, Southeast Asia and Oceania; Japan’s quest for natural resources; the US’s efforts to deprive Japan of oil and other resources; and the resulting need for Japan to remove the US’s military threat to their plans of conquest puts much of the story in context. Stark and up-close historical footage of the December 7th air strikes and torpedo detonations pierce our hearts and puncture our minds with eerily vivid detail. They transport us to a time when, without warning, lives were violently taken, and our country changed forever.
The widespread damage inflicted on the US Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor (not to mention the damage done by Japanese attacks that same day in Malaya, Hong Kong, Guam, Wake Island, and the Philippines) was so absolute, so precise, and so lucky on the part of Japan. On our part, we had a series of unfortunate choices. We were prepared for sabotage from an amphibious assault but never for a surprise aerial attack. Planes sat on the airfield wingtip to wingtip, absent of any artillery payload. When a Japanese midget submarine was detected (and then destroyed) early in the morning, no further action was taken. And when radars detected a massive influx of fighters, the radar technician was told, “Don’t worry about it” by a lieutenant who erroneously believed they were US fighters returning from training in California.
Sailors watch as the USS Shaws burns in the background of destroyed planes on Ford Island. (AP photo, US Navy)
Two waves of Japanese attacks consisted of 103 bombers, 40 torpedo bombers, 129 dive-bombers, and 72 fighters. They destroyed 6 of 8 battleships (the remaining two were damaged), 3 destroyers, 3 light cruisers, 4 other vessels, and 164 planes (128 more were damaged). Almost 2500 servicemen and civilians were killed, 1200 were wounded. The Japanese Imperial Navy, in turn, lost only 4 midget submarines, 29 aircraft, and 64 men. Fortunately our heavy carriers were out at sea and therefore avoided destruction.
But everything has consequences.
Japan succeeded in neutralizing the US Naval Pacific Fleet, but it galvanized an American public who wanted justice…and vengeance. We declared war on Japan. Because of their alliance with Germany and Italy, those two countries declared war on us (although we likely would have ended up at war with them in any case, given their actions in Europe at the time). Four years of war stole the irreplaceable lives of military personnel and civilians on all sides. And if we believe that all life is precious (and I do happen to believe that), then we must understand the pain of any person whose loved one is killed in war…even if they are “the enemy”.
The USS Arizona Memorial
Silently we empty the theater to board the vessel that takes us to the memorial. When it was built, critics said Alfred Preis’s bridge-like structure resembled a “squashed milk carton”. The architect’s intent was to evoke a sense of the initial defeat but ultimate victory in WWII. To me, it is beautiful, provocative, serene, sorrowful, hopeful, simple, and bold–all at once. It’s a perfect place for solemn reflection. Symbolism permeates every aspect of the memorial, and what you may not recognize consciously with your eyes, you surely register subconsciously in your mind, and more profoundly, in your heart.
A diagram of the sunken vessel and the memorial that straddles but does not touch it.The assembly hall of the memorial, with its three sets of seven windows, invites solemn reflection and hope.
Positioned perpendicularly to the hull of the sunken vessel below, this memorial stands proudly and respectfully above the watery tomb of about 1000 sailors whose bodies were never recovered. As I make my way from the entrance to the assembly hall, I notice the openness of the structure. There are seven windows to my left, seven to my right, and seven above me. I suspect it’s an allusion to the date of the attack (December 7), and when I ask the park ranger about it, she confirms it and adds that the total number of windows–21–is rumored to be a visual symbol of a 21-gun salute.
1,177 names of sailors of the Arizona who perished on December 7, 1941 and carved in stone and are flanked by two sets of Tree of Life windows.
At the far end, a shrine features the names of the 1,177 sailors of the USS Arizona who died in the attack. Windows in that room are metaphors for the Tree of Life, reminding us that even in death, there can and must be renewal. This idea of growth and new life repeats itself in the waters below, where the green of the algae intertwines with the rust of the battleship’s hull and fishes of all kinds gather and find nourishment.
As you look down into the waters, you can’t help but reflect on the life and death below you and to contemplate your own reflection of humanity.Oil from the USS Arizona becomes a hauntingly artistic and beautiful reminder of war, pain, loss, and renewal.
And still one more remnant of this destroyed vessel makes its constant and continually evolving presence known. It reminds each of us that the past really is never that far and is always a part of us. Oil from the USS Arizona continues to leak into the waters of Pearl Harbor. And while it poses a threat to the sea life it infests, it has a strange and wondrous elegance. Swirls and circles of onyx and rainbow tones sway amoeba-like on the water, and they hypnotize me. I think to myself, “Nature is the greatest artist,” and then I remember that it was Man that produced and destroyed what was here. But perhaps Nature, in its wise and masterful way, is doing its best to help us make sense and beauty out of war and pain.
A color guard stands at the ready as they prepare for the 72nd anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Back at the Visitors’ Center, a military color guard stands at the ready, practicing for the anniversary events to be held in two days. I can’t help but say a small prayer that we always strive for peace and diplomacy in all our interactions with other nations so that these boys (and they are just boys), their fellow colleagues, and their counterparts around the world never have to suffer as their predecessors did in so many previous wars.
These soldiers take respite in the shade before practicing their 21-gun salute duties for upcoming the anniversary ceremony.“Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”
Chairs are set up across an immense lawn for a prestigious ceremony. A rifle guard rests in a tiny pool of shade while they wait their turn to practice their 21-gun salute. And onlookers like us goose-neck in awe at our fortune of being in the right place at the right time. As Odile and I finally make our way towards the exit, an announcer says, “Please rise for our National Anthem.” I signal to Odile to stop and we search for the American flag to face it and pay proper respect. An officer says to us, “You don’t have to do that. This is just practice.” But my friend and I turn to each other, and somehow we both know and feel that for us, this isn’t just practice. In unison, we sing, “Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light…”
It’s early morning. 6:30 to be exact. I’ve yet to take my shower, but centuries-old buildings are bathing in amber-and rose-tinted sunlight and summon me for a visit. There’s so much to do today, and I need to maximize my time here. Ninety minutes of Venice practically all to myself is irresistible–and so achievable if you’re willing to resist the temptation to hit the snooze button.
Gondolas nestle together in the cove of a canal in the early morning hours before the tourists arrive en masse.
Empty gonodoles bob sleepily in a tucked-away alcove. Vacant campi seem to sigh in relief, relishing their temporary reprieve from the weight of souvenir carts and the tourist hoards. Piazza San Marco feels simultaneously grander and more intimate when only five people and some pigeons populate the scene. It’s a photographer’s eye-candy land, and I’m gobbling it all up.
After a hot shower and re-caffeinating with a proper cappuccino, I’m ready to brave the already swarming cruise crowds that have descended upon this gem of a city. The trick is, of course, to go where they aren’t–that means avoiding everything from Piazza San Marco to the Rialto Bridge, or going off-island completely. So I do a combination of both.
In minutes, I’m on the nearby island of Murano. There are plenty of vacationers here, looking for the best deals on the island’s famous glassworks–even I keep my eyes peeled for some neck-bling for myself and gifts for loved ones back home–but it’s a nominal fraction of the multitudes on lovely Venezia right now.
I’ve got no place to put this in my house, but I can’t help liking it.
I humor myself by visiting a glass factory’s showroom. While there are no glassblowing demonstrations today, a young and earnest Ukranian woman is “more than happy” to guide me through the vast rooms of shimmering chandeliers. You can almost see the potential Euros gleaming in her big blue eyes. I’m a sucker for chandeliers, but I’m not in the market for one. Still, this is a great way to learn about glassmaking, and if my heart goes pitter-patter in covetous joy over blingy lighting fixtures, so be it.
To get an even broader education on Murano glass, I meander over to the island’s glass museum, Museo del Vetro. Housed in the former residence of the bishops of Torcello, its artifacts range from 15th-century pieces used as vessels for food and beverage to contemporary works designed to adorn, to decorate, and to wow. Beyond the informative and eye-catching displays, one of the best things about this museum is its lack of crowds. What a luxury it is to linger as you wish in front of handcrafted works, to admire the detail, and to appreciate the artistry and skill it takes to go into any single one of these pieces.
Back on Venice, my stomach alerts me that it must be time for pranza or lunch. Still on my mission to be where the tourists are not, I head over towards sestiere Castello (the Castello neighborhood, in the “tail” section of fish-shaped Venice) and pop into a bare-bones restaurant. I never remember the name of this place and can only “feel” which streets to turn on to get here, but it’s a favorite amongst the overall-wearing, pasta-bellied, local workers. And I trust them for good value and good quality.
Finding well-worn door knockers (PC or otherwise) is an architectural, historical, and cultural adventure through Venice.
Blood-sugar levels back to normal, I venture out again. The silence in this area of town impresses me and practically forces me to focus more on everything else around me: the patina of the centuries-old buildings; intricate patterns along rooflines, windows and doorframes that evoke the Byzantine influence of days gone by, and the time-polished gleam of brilliantly detailed (and sometimes not very PC) brass door knockers–“sambos” greeting visitors at your door wouldn’t cut it in The States. Although modernity has made its presence known here, history–PC or not–still lingers and permeates everything.
I wander, turning at random to let Fate decide my next destination. She’s a wonderful tour guide, Fate. She lets discover things you’d never plan to encounter. First stop: a grocery store. I didn’t need anything, but I popped in. From the non-descript façade, you’d never guess how vast the interior is. Locals on a mission darted from aisle to aisle, picking up their daily necessities, and I wondered why this seemed like a whole other world apart from the Venice I shape in my mind. While Venice entertains 10 million guests a year, it’s home to 60,000; and embracing your curiosity, you can occasionally feel the actual small town community. Visitors tend to experience museums, churches, restaurants–you know, the touristy stuff. Fate’s detour reminded me that while we may travel thousands of miles to see a city’s top sites, for locals, sometimes it’s just about the daily grind. And that in itself is pretty cool to see, too.
A Roman original, this sculpture of “The Abduction of Ganymede” is suspended high above the floor of the Tribuna room of Palazza Grimani.
Fate led me next to Palazzo Grimani, one of 200 palaces in Venice. It was a lovely discovery. Its original architecture, scavenged marble, and surviving frescoes evoke 16th-century humanism and classicism. I easily imagined what life could’ve been like for the Grimani family–great collectors of antiquities and contemporary art who lived here from the mid-1500s until the early 19th century. Now lovingly cared for by the state, this palace-turned-museum hosts an original Roman sculpture ofTheAbduction of Ganymede, along with minor works by Titiano, Tintoretto, and Hieronymous Bosch, and sees a mere fraction of the visitors that the formidable Doge’s Palace does. A visit here–and a little imagination–takes you back to the Venice of centuries ago.
Zigging and zagging my way through this fish of an island, I never worried about where I was or where I would end up. If I so chose, I could look up at signs to point me back to Rialto, San Marco, Accademia, or Ferrovia (train station)…but I did not so choose. I simply journeyed on. Venice can make lots of people nervous. It can be easy to get disoriented, but I always keep in mind that it’s pretty hard to get lost. It is just an island after all.
An master mask-maker uses papier-mâché to shape his latest creation.
From sestiere Cannareggio to San Polo, through Santa Croce and in Dorsoduro, I ogled boutique displays, let savory aromas pull me toward their restaurant storefronts, sampled several flavors of gelato (in the name of research, of course), witnessed mask-makers crafting new disguises for would-be Casanovas, and even found Mikhail Baryshnikov in an art gallery (well, I found a free exhibition of a stunning photo series his did on dance throughout the world).
An artisan works lovingly on a delicate statue.
One of my last finds was an artisan’s workshop near the famed opera house, Teatro La Fenice di Venezia. A gentleman was working diligently on a graceful statue. I was too timid to interrupt him, but he saw me there and let me quietly observe him at his craft. I wondered whether he was restoring an antique piece or creating something new. Each movement was deliberate, cautious, strategic, and delicate. His pride was evident, and I felt fortunate to see tradition, skill, and passion manifest in this man’s work.
From my red velvet box seat at La Fenice, I sit gratefully, listening to Keith Jarrett masterfully play the piano.
As I turned to leave, a friend who was in town phoned me, saying he had an extra ticket for the Keith Jarrett concert at La Fenice–would I like to go? Uh, yeah! I’d never been to La Fenice, and although I’ve never listened to Keith Jarrett, you simply don’t say no to such an invitation. And so, as Fate would have it, I found myself at the right place at the right time. Capping my discovery-filled day with my virgin visit to a world-renowned 18th-century opera house and enjoying the musical stylings of one of the world’s greatest jazz pianists, I sat silently gleeful in my red velvet box seat and relished my newest memories of Venice. And I had Fate to thank for all that.
When you think of Iceland, you might think: cold, Leif Erickson, Nordic, thermal energy, big volcano with unpronounceable name, or Björk. I’m not so sure that good food would be among the first things to pop into your head. But perhaps it should be.
It’s easy to find top-quality, innovative cuisine using locally sourced ingredients. It’s also easy to find not so good food, too. So it’s wise to use sites/apps like Yelp, Urban Spoon, or Trip Advisor to find the popular spots. However, do take the comments with a grain of salt–it’s not unheard of for proprietors to “anonymously” post rave reviews about their own places. And those who make extremely negative remarks or assign low ratings usually sound a bit…hmm, let’s say, crazy.
Better still, ask a local or your hotelier. But ask the right question. Rather than saying, “Where should I eat?”(which may precipitate an overpriced, touristy option), ask instead, “Where would you eat for lunch or dinner?” or “Where do you eat your favorite meal?” When Rick and I did this, we got several great suggestions and tried them out.
Battered cod-liness is next to godliness.
On the harbor front sits Höfnin, a modernly rustic restaurant with delightful views of sailboats, Harpa (Reykjavik’s civic concert hall), and distant hillsides. The quality views are matched handily by quality food and congenial service. If you try to read the menu’s series of Ìslenska (Icelandic) consonants–which are only occasionally interrupted by vowels or other consonants with circles or slashes or squiggles on top–you might get too frustrated to try to order anything, and all you’ll end up with is a headache and an empty stomach. Mercifully, English translations give clear and tempting descriptions of your culinary options. As my fork pieced the golden and crispy armor of my perfectly cook cod, swirls of steam wafted upwards like a genie released from a precious bottle. Even before I bit into my lunchtime dish, I knew it would be divine.
Who knew there were so many kinds of fish jerky?
Should you want a typical snack, pop into a convenience store and get Iceland’s answer to beef jerky–wait for it…fish jerky. I wish I could tell you it’s tasty, but I just couldn’t get past the briny, fishy odor without my gag reflexes kicking in. Rick, on the other hand, loved it.
Harpooned–oops, I mean, skewered–whale, ready to be grilled.
Now whale–whale I like. Truly. I had seen it sold raw on skewers earlier in the day, and could not even begin to imagine consuming what I knew to be Shamu’s long-lost cousin. But when our dinner companion (a Reykjavik local) insisted we order the minke whale with a soy sauce glaze, we dutifully followed his instructions. I won’t tell you that it tastes like chicken. It doesn’t. But it sure does taste like tender yet hearty beef.
Minke whale–tastes like delicious beef.
Our dinner at Grillmarkaõurrin (The Grill Market) didn’t stop there. We had plate after plate after plate of savory bites, perfect for sharing…although everything tasted so good, I didn’t want to share. Our tasting menu included Westfjords crispy and vibrantly colored fish and squid, honey and chili-glazed pork ribs, Icelandic duck coated in an oxtail BBQ sauce, and seared beef with mushrooms (which, while delicious, seemed to be overkill after the whale). On top of all that, we did our best to kill a dessert platter so rich, so decadent, and so plentiful that it nearly killed us.
Officially too much food.Pylsur: If it’s good enough for Bill Clinton, it’s good enough for me.
But if lowbrow (and inexpensive) is more your style, don’t pass up the pylsur from Baejarins Beztu Pylsur. Even President Bill Clinton couldn’t deny himself the guilty pleasure of wrapping his mouth around this overloaded phallic concoction. One might say it’s gilding the hot dog lily to smother it in ketchup, sweet mustard, raw onions, fried onions, mayonnaise, and remoulade (I’m usually a ketchup and mustard gal myself), but Icelanders sure know a good thing when they eat it. And as they say: when in Reykjavik…
Our guide, Arnar, shows us our route from Reykjavik to the area near Eyjafjallajokull.
No trip to Iceland is complete without a visit to the highlands. With the help of an expert guide–equipped with a “Super Jeep”, Rick and I made the four-hour trek from Reykjavik to the rugged and almost other worldly landscapes near Eyjafjallajökul (pronounced EY-ya-fyad-luh-YO-kuld, a.k.a. E15–starts with “E” has 15 letters). You’ll recall that this volcano erupted in 2010, creating much disruption throughout Europe. Tons of its fine ash spewed into the atmosphere, prompting the cancellation of hundreds of domestic and international flights for weeks. While they say you have advanced warning of an eruption, I couldn’t help but be a wee bit nervous.
The rugged and desolate terrain near E15 can be a photographer’s and filmmaker’s delight.
Cutting through valleys of ebony lava rock, I surveyed this eerily desolate yet strikingly beautiful landscape and imagined being back in earth’s primordial youth. We rumbled over deep ditches, through rushing streams that could inundate or even topple a lesser vehicle, and below the shadows of a volcanic mountain range. We were following the tracks of so many who had bravely (or foolishly) trekked here before. It’s not just adventurous Icelanders or curious tourists that come here to explore this strange and old-yet-new land. This terrain has been used as the backdrop for futuristic, ancient, and imaginary worlds in films such as the recent blockbuster Star Trek: Into Darkness and the upcoming re-interpretation of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.
Colorful patchworks of earthy life intermittently carpet wide stretches of the valley.
At times, we were surrounded by nothing but rubble, and I wondered if anything could possibly thrive here. Then suddenly, broad swaths of (barely) inches-high foliage appeared as intricately woven rugs, blanketing mile-long stretches of this remote valley. Was this spared from E15, or was it evidence that nature–life–will always overcome adversity and destruction? I hoped that, somehow, both were true.
Sheep roam freely in search of the best meal.
Sheep roamed the lower slopes of the valley and grazed the tender, wild grasses. They paid no attention to the rain, their thick Nordic wool virtually impenetrable. I could barely make out their ear tags, but clearly, these sheep belonged to someone who let them wander far from visible signs of civilization. The flock knew what it was doing. They followed their instincts to find stable a source of nourishment, and here, they had found it.
The E15 Glacier, although still impressive, is now only a portion of what it was prior to the 2010 eruption.
Further on, we stopped at the E15 glacier. Admiring its angles, its white-against-black contrasts, and its immensity, I felt small. And not just small, but humbled–awed in the way that only the majesty of nature can make you feel. Standing before this mammoth ice mass, I knew that is was only a fraction of its former self. Volcanic forces had melted, bombarded, and crumbled enormous sections of the ice, as well as the mountain that lay beneath and alongside the glacier. Its castoffs had been carried off to sea by torrents of meltwater. Three years later, what remains at its base are boulders too massive to be swept away, literal tons of volcanic ash, and tiny rivers of still melting ice. Still, despite the evidence of colossal destruction, tiny bits of life emerge and boldly strive to make their presence known.
LIfe triumphs over destruction and strives to make its presence known.A Super Jeep like this can take you virtually anywhere in Iceland…just be prepared to come back with a few bruises.
As we continued on our trek, my abs ached from trying to find stability in our roller coaster ride through nature. My forearm and shoulder started to throb after having hit the walls of the Super Jeep so many times–bruises would become my adventure souvenir. And nausea became a rather inconvenient and unrelenting foe. But as soon as we arrived at our hiking stop, none of that mattered.
Single rainbow, all the way.
The heavy cloud cover started to break, and the rain diminished to a fine mist. A singular, unbroken rainbow stretched itself along the near bank of the dry, ash-laden riverbed. The look of the land was drastically different here. Shrub-lined trails led us steadily and steeply to the top of a high rock outcrop. Looking around, below, and across, we saw that trees were now relatively prolific, but their slender trunks and petite stature revealed their youth. This region was screaming with potential–not for civilization, urbanization, or industrialization, but for life, in all its untamed glory.
Life thrives in this area of the E15 area.Feeling compelled to get close to the power waterfall, I run and skip all the way down to path.
We headed back towards Reykjavik, and just before getting back to the paved roads, we stopped at a grand waterfall. Even standing three hundreds yards away, I sensed its power as it surged over the cliff and pummeled the area below. It seemed to have its own gravity, and it drew me closer. I needed to see this waterfall up close, to feel its chilling spray on my face, and to be deafened by its roar.
Rick is ready to be in the moment and waits patiently for me to catch up.
At its base, a man stood on a rock, fishing. He looked so at ease, so expertly natural. I moved behind the waterfall. I wanted to preserve the moment and kept trying to take pictures. Rick turned to me and, straining to be heard above the rushing water, said, “Put your camera away and just be in the moment with me.”
Behind the waterfall: powerful, beautiful, amazing.Be in the moment.
Perhaps it’s human nature that in our quest to understand nature, we try too much to encapsulate it, to control it. Whether it be with machinery, with a camera, with pen and paper, or a laptop, we want to hold onto its amazing power and beauty–perhaps for the betterment of society or simply for the betterment of self. And more often than not, we would perhaps do better to just stand back and be in the moment.
What do you do in Iceland when you only have two days to visit? Lots, that’s what.
Flying into Keflavik Airport, we get amazing views onto Reykjavik, Iceland’s capital.
Instead of flying directly from St. Petersburg to Seattle, my partner Rick Steves and I decided to take advantage of spending some time (for the first time) in Iceland. We hoped to break up our jet lag and to get traveler’s primer on some of the highlights of this relatively young nation. And with only about 48 hours to explore, we carpei‘d our diem and hit the ground running biking.
Biking along the harbor in Reykjavik is exhilarating.
With our local guide, we traversed the quaint yet bustling capital, Reykjavik. The harbor is a hive of activity, with its fishing trawlers, private boats, restaurant scene, trendy hotels and volcano films. Passing by terraces packed with locals and tourists geared up in scarves, sweaters and fleece, we felt the brisk Icelandic wind whoosh through our hair and up our jacket sleeves. As I felt goose bumps multiply, I felt grateful that I had the foresight to bring my gloves.
Life is calm and quaint along one of the main drags in downtown Reykjavik.
Just pedals away from the harbor is the city center. It’s a good thing we were on bikes; it made it so easy to get around the single-lane streets. There’s a certain Nordic sense about the place (Iceland was originally settled by Norsemen in 874 AD and was affiliated with Denmark from the 1400s until 1944, when it became a republic). Absent of sky-scrapers or any building higher than four stories, the hub of this city feels more like hip and vibrant village than an intense and overwhelming capital.
Leif Erickson stands proudly before the Hallgrimskirkja Lutheran Church.
Up the hill is the Hallgrimskirkja Lutheran Church. We ducked inside and caught the last ten minutes of an organ concert. While there were many visitors, I secretly wished we had been there on Sunday to attend service with Reykjavik locals. As much as I love learning about the uniqueness of cultures, I also enjoy celebrating our commonalities together. Standing before the rocket-about-to-liftoff façade of the church, a statue of Leif Erickson stands proudly, as though at the crest of a wave that will propel him forward to discover the Americas (500 years before Columbus).
Original, hand-carved wooden benches.
We meandered along a pristine lakeside park and beyond the city center to the National Museum of Iceland. It wasn’t meant to be on our official tour of the city, but Rick and I both wanted to boost our sightseeing with more historical and anthropological context. Our guide gave us about twenty minutes to blitz the museum, and it was well worth it. Hand-carved furniture, centuries-old vellum texts, traditional clothing, and typical tools and utensils gave us a glimpse into the past and stoked our curiosity even more about life in Iceland –past and present.
This early evidence of Icelandic written on vellum dates from 1250 and is part of the Gragas Law Code. this section explains: All men are prescribed by law to provide for those who cannot feed or clothe themselves, supporting them of either their own means or labor. Those who have no such support shall be conveyed to the commune in which their heir resides, if second cousin or closer.We and three other passengers got to enjoy a private tour of Faza Bay on this fancy yacht.
After our bike tour, we made our way back to harbor to catch a private boat excursion, courtesy of the Reykjavik Tourist Board. I had never been on such a beautiful boat and half expected Robin Leach to pop up and offer us “champagne wishes and caviar dreams”. The luxurious double-decker yacht brought us out to Faza Bay in search of migratory puffins, whales, and dolphins. After a couple of hours, we were contented with one dolphin pod sighting and the blissful calm that is unique to glissading over luscious blue waters.
No one should actually trust me to captain this thing.Chase hard at work.
Back on dry land, we had a chance encounter with two of our friends (and fellow Seattleites)–the brilliant photographer Chase Jarvis and his wife/producer Kate. They and their crew were finishing up a photo shoot before flying out to another location somewhere in this great, wide world of ours. While we don’t prefer to interrupt people while they’re working, it was just too cool to bump into people you know in a country you’ve never visited. Seriously, what are the chances?
When you run into friends in a faraway country, seize the moment to get photographic evidence.Harpa from the water.
Still eager to get better-acquainted with Reykyavik, we strolled to the northeast end of the harbor to visit the recently-built glass concert hall and conference center, Harpa. Whether viewed from the water or from the land-side façades, or experienced from within, this stunning cultural center is bringing much-sought after attention. It draws world-class talent and welcomes the community to enjoy their own national favorites.
It’s equally as beautiful from the front.Who wouldn’t love to hear a concert in here?
As with most new cultural-based sites around the world, it has its detractors. Here, they believe money used to fund the building could have been better spent on fishing boats to foster more growth in that industry. Proponents of Harpa, including native musical icon Bjork, say that you can’t put a price on the value of sharing art (in all its forms) with society and that it’s about time the Iceland Symphony Orchestra has a quality place to perform…instead of in a movie theater (granted, a nice one, but come on!). Besides Harpa’s vampire-red main hall (it’s really sexy and plush), there are several smaller venues for more intimate performances, lecture halls, and reception areas. Even if you don’t get to see a performance on your visit, it well worth a look inside to appreciate the beauty of the space.
Everywhere you look inside Harpa, you’ll find camera-worthy angles.
After a quick freshening-up, we ventured out into the world’s northern-most capital once more. We had accomplished a lot in just seven hours, and our energy levels needed replenishing. Icelandic culinary delights were in order, so we made a beeline for the Grill Market. More on that in an upcoming post.
They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. It’s the way to mine, too. So, when gearing up for our visit to St. Petersburg, the prospect of drab food options made my heart sigh a big meh. I imagined dining exclusively on borscht (beets and my taste buds are mortal enemies), stewed cabbage, and boiled potatoes, then forcing it all down with liters of vodka. I was letting communist-era stereotypes mess with my head (a recurring theme with me here, and I should have learned my lesson by now). I had forgotten that the Russian Empire had once encompassed dozens of ethnicities and cultures–each with their own distinct cuisines–and that, oh yeah, this is the 21st century and St. Petersburg is a pretty cosmopolitan place.
Would you like the mushy veggies or the bland soup?
It’s not that bleak food doesn’t still linger. It does. Dismal diners slop down mushy veggies (cooked to within an inch of their life) for lonely-looking souls. It’s retro middle school cafeteria-style cuisine for adults…minus the pimples and food fights.
You don’t need to be able to read Cyrillic to know what this place is.
If you want to step it up half a quarter notch, you can dine at the invading multinationals like McDonald’s, Burger King, Subway, or the latest edition–Quiznos. They’re easy to find. Their logos look the same as in the States, even when spelled in Cyrillic.
Dollar dogs (30 rubles ? $1) on the streets of St. Petersburg.
Street food has a presence, too. Food trucks (although not as edgy or gourmet as the recent trend in the States) and hot dog vendors are fairly common. You’ll easily find quick snacks for 30 rubles ($1). Come on, how can you pass that up?
Tepemok has quick, inexpensive Russian delights.
But if you really want fast-food, you may as well go full-blown Russian and try Tepemok. Sample savory pancakes as well as sweet ones. Not your cup of Russian black cherry tea? Try their soups, buckwheat porridges, or salads. Averaging about 120 rubles per dish (roughly $4), you can sample a wide variety of Russian food without breaking the bank.
Cheesy on the inside, cheesy on the outside…just as kachapuri cheese bread should be.
When I’m in the States, I crave Mexican food. In Russia, people crave Georgian food. After tasting it for myself, I understand why. Rick and I joined our ex-pat friend Steve Caron at his neighborhood Georgian restaurant. Dining family-style, we scarfed down delicate eggplant slices wrapped around a creamy walnut pesto. We followed that up with kachapuri, the genius Georgian equivalent of pizza dough filled with cheese and baked with even more cheese on top–basically the best cheese bread ever.
Similar to Chinese tangbao, it requires certain skills to eat this Georgian dumpling.
After that, Steve gave us a lesson in eating khinkali, a softball-sized broth- and meat-filled dumpling, similar to Chinese tangbao. Holding it by its twisty handle, nibble a teeny piece from the bottom and suck out all the broth. Then eat away at the dough wrap to reveal the protein prize inside.
Steve shows us his khinkhali skills.Drink me.
Wash all that down with some tarragon lemonade. You’d be tempted to think this Incredible Hulk-green beverage might turn you into a science fiction monster, but the most it’ll do is satisfy your thirst with a refreshing herby sweetness.
Samsa: potpie taken to a whole other level of deliciousness.
Similar to Georgian, yet still unique, is Uzbek food. A flat-noodle version of khinkali has virtually identical flavors as its cousin to the northwest. But the dish that almost made me lose my manners was a family-style version of samsa. One bite of this delectable veggie and tender meat potpie–laden with hints of black cumin, coriander and celeriac–and I was ready to start hoarding away chunks of it in my purse like a squirrel stocking up for winter.
American comfort food makes its way to St. Petersburg.
Being the most European of all Russian cities, St. Petersburg benefits from looking westward for culinary influence. A new restaurant, Schengen (whose name celebrates notion of passport-less travel throughout the Schengen Treaty countries, as well as the broader idea of traveling freely) take its patron’s pallets on a trip through Europe with dishes like confit de canard, Icelandic trout soup, and affogato. Looking even farther west., America’s favorite comfort food, mac & cheese, now comforts Russians, too.
Chicken tandoori is a hit at New Holland.
And at New Holland–a yuppie suburban park and community oasis where the cool kids go to see, be seen, chill out and get some good eats–“exotic” treats like chicken tandoori pop up on the menu, along with fresh vegetables with hummus, sliders with all the fixings, and sweet potato fries partnered with garlic aioli. Nom nom.
At The Cookie Shop, you can satisfy your sweet tooth (teeth) with a whole slew of baked goods.
If you’re like me, you don’t have a sweet tooth–you’ve got sweet teeth. A place like The Cookie Shop can supply a sweet for each of your thirty-two pearly whites. While it may seem to Americans like their selection is ordinary, these are all novelties here. Imagine gooey chocolate chip, bumpy oatmeal raisin, and freckled snickerdoodle cookies not as the usual suspects but as mysterious and trendy treats. And if you crave another kind of naughty nosh, cupcakes and macarons can be your decadent vice instead.
Rick samples homemade pickles at a St. Petersburg market hall.
For more natural and healthy options, you can’t beat a trip to the local market hall or corner convenience store. Like at their counterparts in Budapest, Helsinki, Paris, or Madrid, you get access to the freshest fruits, artisan items like honey, and cultural staples like pickled vegetables. A smidge of this and a bit of that are the makings of a perfect picnic or midnight snack.
From frothy lattés to savory dumplings, we’ve made tasty memories in St. Petersburg.
Top it all off with a frothy latté at the nearest coffee house. And as you make your way to the bottom of your cup, pat your full belly, savor your string of dining memories, and sigh with satisfaction at how St. Petersburg has found a fond place in your heart.
We walked hand-in-hand, wondering aloud to each other, “When was this built? What do you think that sign says? What was this place like just before the fall of the Soviet Union?” It was the first time in three days in St. Petersburg that we had actually just wandered around. We had been going at break-neck pace so Rick could research and update his guidebook chapters. Finally enjoying a leisurely stroll along Nevsky Prospekt was a welcome breath of fresh air.
Stop here.
Changing pace from researcher-mode to traveler-mode allowed us the chance to see and do things we’d otherwise miss. With cameras at the ready, we lingered in front of elaborate storefronts and lollygagged across statue-adorned bridges. We moved slowly in the fast city. Well-heeled, nouveaux-riche Russians strode confidently with iPhones in hand. No-neck thugs walked three-abreast–bullies ruling their bit of sidewalk and assuming others would move out of their way (and they did). Bicycles, beat-up Ladas (tiny Soviet Union-era cars), trolleybuses, and ramshackle mini-buses sped down the avenue. Thankfully, I recognized the Cyrillic transliteration of “Stop”.
Do you see her?
About to enjoy a much-needed coffee break, I saw a petite old lady resting against a wall. It seemed liked everyone was passing her by without a single glance. Although it must have been 80 degrees, this elderly and frail babushka was cloaked in a heavy sweater and covered her head with a faded scarf. Was she resting from the heat? Was she waiting for a loved one? Was she a beggar? I had to stop. I asked Rick if he thought she was OK. As we both turned back to look at her, a no-neck approached her rapidly, and I stiffened. But then I saw him hand her a piece of fruit. She accepted it gratefully, he walked away, and she leaned wearily back against the wall.
“We should check on her,” I said. Rick agreed but let me go alone. Maybe she reminded me of my late grandmother. Maybe I was craving human contact in this country that still felt impersonal to me. Whatever it was, something strong drew me to her. I wanted to know: was she homeless, hungry, sad, scared, tired, or lost. I wanted to make sure that she was all right. I needed to.
She was so tiny. I’m barely 5’2” and I towered over her.
“Dobryy den’!” She titled her head, looking towards me inquisitively. I greeted her once more and asked, “Kak dela (how are you)?” As I waited for her response, I marveled at the softness in her glance and the crinkles on her face. I wondered how old she was. She must have been well into her 70s–old enough to have lived through the horrific 900-day Siege of Leningrad, the thrill of Sputnik, the chaotic fall of the Soviet Union, the dawn of Russian democracy, the rough and tumble birth of capitalism here (which cruelly left the older generation–her generation–behind), and the rise of Putin and the oligarchs.
When she replied, I could tell by the inflection in her voice that is was a question. Not knowing what to tell her, I simply placed my hands on my chest and said, “Amerikanskiy.” “Amerikanskiy?” she asked. “Da! Amerikanskiy!”
A light bulb went on for her, and it looked as though it were illuminating her from within. Suddenly her eyes got even warmer. She was filled with energy and began telling me some kind of story. Without pause, the words tumbled from her mouth, and I watched her expressions intently to try to grasp any clue as to what she was telling me. For several minutes, I watched her furrow her brow, look longingly in the distance, and grimace at painful recollections. She looked at me both gently and piercingly, as if forcing my understanding. Clearly something terrible had happened. I wanted to respond but didn’t know how. She must have seen the concern on my face, but she continued on with her story. She needed to share it with this American.
Connecting with this babushka who has a strong affection for Amerikanskiys. (photo by Rick Steves)
As she recounted more of the tale, she gripped my hand began smiling broadly. Repeatedly and fervently now, I heard, “Oh!…Amerika!….Oh!….Amerikanskiy!” Had she met Americans before? Had they helped her out of whatever trauma had occurred? Was she talking about the past or was she referring now to me? This fragile, one-armed babushka–so seemingly by-passed by the modern bustle–let out sighs of joy and gratitude every time she mentioned America, and my heart melted a little more with every smile I saw on her face.
Here we were, standing next to a wall on a Nevsky Prospect sidewalk. Two complete strangers from two very different worlds sharing an intimate and precious moment. We may not have been able to comprehend each other’s languages, but in that space and time with my dear babushka, I think we both somehow understood each other on a much deeper level.
I knew I couldn’t stay much longer, and I didn’t know what I could do for her, but I reached into my pocket, took out the 300 rubles I had (about $10) and gave it to her. She tried to refuse, but I said, “Pozhalusta. Please.” She started to cry. I started to cry. We held hands and then she hugged me. I gave her a kiss on the forehead. She told me, “Spasiba (thank you).” We hugged tightly once more and parted ways.
To my dear babushka, wherever you are: Spasiba for sharing this magical moment with me. (photo by Rick Steves)
I thought I was going to be the one to help out a poor, little old lady. Turns out, she’s the one who helped me. She gave me the most memorable experience of my entire two-month trip. No museum, no church, no tour, no meal could ever compare to the way this woman made me feel–connected with a slice of humanity that I would otherwise never have known existed. Travel is so many things, but it is nothing without the connections we make with the people we meet–even when your common vocabulary is ten words. Whenever I think back to memories of St. Petersburg, it’ll be that smiling face set in wrinkles and shaded by a faded scarf that I’ll remember most vividly and fondly.
